Blighted
by fantasmala
Summary: Ten days after the events of the Passing, two groups of survivors meet once again. But when the group's youngest member succumbs to a threat against which she was supposed to be immune, tension ensues. Now fighting against her teammates as much as the relentless infected, an infected Zoey is forced reexamine her motives for survival, as well learning to trust in an unlikely ally.
1. Void

Disclaimer: I neither own nor seek profit from the Left 4 Dead Franchise. The concept and characters are the sole property of Valve.

A/N: Just an interesting little idea I've had floating around my head. Due to a difficult college schedule, I'm not sure how often I can update, though as long as people read, I will make the effort. This story is long, and I sort of drop you right in the middle of it, so I ask for your patience as you read through. Thank you for giving this story a chance and I wish you only the best with your reading and writing endeavors.

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**1: Void**

* * *

_It was only a dream…_

Back and forth she rocked, the wet fabric of her jacket clinging to the clammy surface of her back. It was dark now; a midnight black sufficient obscure any sight or realization. She was blind—both unseeing and unknowing— but she cared not. It was better this way.

_It was only a dream… That's what I've got to keep telling myself… It was only dream…_

Yes, let the dark envelop her, nestle about her like a warm blanket. It was soothing upon both her frightened state of mind and her sore body. Given enough time, just about anything could heal, right? Yes, that was what she believed. She had no other choice. Any other explanation only made it hurt more. Didn't matter anyway, the latter was impossible…

_I was seeing things… Yeah, I was seeing things…I don't even know what I was worrying about in the first place… C'mon Zoey, get your head out of the gutter or Francis will never let you live this down…_

Exactly! All this was just a dream, one terrible nightmare from which she had finally awoken. Very real indeed, maybe the weeks of fighting were finally catching up to her...

No.

She'd dreamed of worse. Death, blood, the pained cries of her past life… none of these existed in her vision. Not that she was complaining. A sigh of relief wisped past her lips. Yes, things could have been worse. Far worse. At least she didn't see Bill… or her father…

_Shit, Zoey, stop scaring yourself. You know that couldn't have happened... You're immune, even the military said so..._

Yes! All this made sense now. A smile curled across unseen lips as she rose from her hiding spot, pushing the stall door open. She would leave the bathroom and rejoin her companions. She could almost hear their voices in the room beyond. No doubt they were taking time for some much needed relaxation, something she also would soon partake in. This was the first safe house they'd found in days, and she was not about to spoil it with some foolhardy nightmare.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the red… twin coals in the abyss, now a part of her… a part of what she had become…

_This was no dream; this was real. Things had changed. She had changed._

She screamed, falling once again into darkness. But this time, no relief came to her. The blackness, once a buffer to her fears, had collapsed into a void, dark and terrible: a void of truth… a truth she had known all along...

* * *

_5 days later..._

The dark room was silent, devoid of any sound or movement. What little sunlight that managed to leak through the cracks in the boards haphazardly nailed over the room's sole window only served to further accent the dismal scene, faintly illuminating the mangled shapes of men, women, and children sprawled across the stained floor: the inanimate denizens of this modern tomb. Tables and chairs lay haphazardly about the somber chamber, while the cabinets lining the walls yawned wide open, their doors hanging lazily upon their hinges. At the room's center, the body of a man lying face-up upon a lopsided bureau completed the ghastly scene, the gnarled remains of his hand pointing skyward. The thumb was missing, its place of attachment occupied instead by a ragged mess of dried blood and rotting tissue. Such was the way the room remained—silent, inanimate, and unfeeling—until he kicked the door down.

Immediately the smell of death and alcohol assaulted his nostrils, forcing him backwards a couple steps.

"Urrrg… Ah' guess yeh' never do get used ter' dis kinda smell..." he groaned to himself, his southern drawl cutting through the silence like a warm knife through a steaming stack of pancakes.

Muttering a few choice words under his breath, he entered the room, the staccato tinkles of broken glass crunching underfoot marking his path as he made his way towards the window, the dim outline of a baseball bat twirling lazily in his grasp. With a grunt, he brought the dented bludgeon down upon the crude barricade. The wooden boards splintered under the impact, allowing pale beams of sunlight to gush into the room, throwing its contents into full detail.

Illuminated by the newfound light, the new arrival was revealed to be a young man of average height and build garbed in a cream-colored tee shirt and a dusty pair of overalls whose shoulder straps had been pulled down and tied around his trim waist to form an improvised belt. His arms were tanned and reasonably muscled, lacking the bulk and definition of a bodybuilder, but possessing a hardness and tone reminiscent of a rough lifestyle. Small scars dotted every inch of exposed skin on his body, while the inky lines of a wicked blue tattoo snaked out from beneath the sleeve covering his upper right arm. Not unlike his arms, his face was also hard, devoid of any hint of softness. Flecks of dirt and dried blood dotted his jaw line, while a scruff of short hazelnut hair curled out from beneath the faded blue baseball cap perched firmly atop his head. Indeed, everything about this man was rough, bespeaking a life of hard, yet honest undertakings.

Well, almost everything.

His eyes—a rich blue deeper than any ocean—still twinkled with the brilliant spark of childish wonder, while his lazy eyelids promoted a relaxed and carefree side to what would have otherwise been a very intimidating image. Yes, this man had crossed the threshold to adulthood only recently, with mischievous streaks of boyhood maintaining their stubborn hold upon his being. However, as if to contrast to his innocence, the glistening black metal of a combat shotgun peeked out from behind his shoulder, while the dented hulk of a baseball bat hung lazily by his side. Make no mistake, this youth had passed through a hell hot enough to torch the spirits of lesser men. Such was the man who now stood before the now-broken window, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the new light. He was fighter, a risk-taker, a soldier, a survivor.

"There…" he breathed contentedly as fresher air entered the room, "much better… Now, where was ah'?"

Turning around, the young man surveyed the room and its long-dead inhabitants. Frightening indeed. Such obscene levels of gore were never meant to be seen by innocent eyes. Had it been one month ago, the sight would have been enough to reduce a man of lesser resolve to tears. But this wasn't one month ago; such men had perished long ago. In fact, for this rustic ruffian, it wasn't so bad. Truth be told, he'd seen worse. Much worse…

"Sorry about this, mah' friend," he sighed, shoving the four-fingered corpse off a bureau without so much as a respectful tip from his faded baseball cap. Hell, it might as well have been a sack of potatoes.

"Now… let's see 'ere…" he muttered, pulling open the first of bureau's many drawers, revealing a row of overstuffed files. Groaning at the mass of information spread before him, he bent in for a closer look, his eyes scanning for the mass for something that could be of use...

"Patient Insurance Records…" he whispered, thumbing through a file he'd plucked from the stacks. "Crap…" he murmured, tossing the file over his shoulder before taking another.

"Prescriptions Filled: 2009 ter' 2010… crap…" he sighed, discarding the file in a fashion not unlike that of its predecessor.

"Inventory Log… Hospital Utilities Transactions… Public Awareness Campaigns… crap," he drawled on, tossing several binders aside.

"Crap… crap… crap…" he droned continually, the disappointment in his voice growing as file after file was thrown aside, their paper contents spilling across the bloodstained floor. Too quickly, the bureau was emptied, every file nothing more than "crap", as labeled by their southern inspector. Once again, his search had proven useless. Cursing under his breath, the youth got to his feet with the intention of continuing his search before moving on to another room. If they were going to find anything helpful, it was bound to be in a place like this. If…

Well damn, that was the thing.

IF they were going to find anything. There was no guarantee. But that was no way to think. Pessimism never helped his odds of survival, regardless of whatever Nick said. They would find something eventually … he was sure of it. Who knew? Maybe she was having better luck...

"Don't move, son," came a rough voice.

The youth froze as the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck. Staring up at the ceiling he breathed a sigh of annoyance. It had been a while since somebody had managed to sneak up on him. How could he have been so careless?

"Uh… ah' gotta name, stranger," he began in a blithely optimistic tone, fighting the temptation to turn around. "Folks call me Ellis. Ah'm not infected, so yeh' needn't worry about me. Ah'm assuming you ain't either, so why don't yeh try ter put down the gun so we kin' work this ou-"  
"Shut Up!" came another voice, deeper than the first, as a flash of movement flicked out from the corner of his vision, barely giving him enough time to flinch before a meaty fist caved into his stomach, knocking the wind right out of him. As he collapsed onto his hands and knees, the youth managed to glimpse the blurred forms of two men behind him.

"Ugh…" the farm boy gagged, gasping for air. "Never thought ah'd git' this fer' compassion… I ain't been hit this hard since the time me and Keith—"

"Christ, Vince… are you kidding me?" the rough-voiced man growled, disregarding the southerner's babbling, lowering his rifle in annoyance as he addressed his larger companion.

Vince shrugged his massive shoulders, eyeing the gasping youth with annoyance. "Couldn't stand his accent."

"You couldn't stand his accent," the rough-voiced man repeated, shaking his head disappointedly. "God damn it, Vince, I was hoping to get through this without any fighting. The last thing we need is a scuffle loud enough to attract one of those monsters. None of us want a horde bum rushing us right no—AAWGH!" his retort was cut short as the country boy lashed out with a vicious kick, his steel-toed boot catching him in the stomach.

The smaller man fell backwards, writhing in pain as Ellis got to his feet, fists raised towards the one called Vince.

"C'mon, yeh' big-ass sunnuvabeetch!" the farm boy yelled as he whipped forward, his forearms dancing as he jabbed at his large assailant. His aim struck true as his fist collided with the right side of the larger man's face, eliciting a cry of pain. Growling the larger man lumbered forward, swinging his arm out in a wide left jab. "TOO SLOW, FATTY!" Ellis jeered, ducking under the fist before countering with a swift uppercut smoothly followed by a palm to the temple.

"WHY YOU—!" the man cried, blood streaming from his nose as he blindly charged forward, hoping to use his superior bulk against his smaller opponent as he grabbed the youth with both hands and tackled him into a nearby medicine cabinet.

"Well ain't you just the dumbest piece ah' shit I ever laid mah' eyes on…" the youth grunted, his blue eyes alight with the thrill of the fight as he hooked his legs around his opponent's stomach while pummeling the man's exposed head with his free hands. "Grab me with both hands, would ya'?" he continued, pounding away as his attacker stumbled backwards, clearly dazed from the youth's onslaught. "Jeezus! Yeh' must've had a death wish or somethin'!" A smile curled across the young rustic's face. He hadn't been in a fist fight since the time him and Keith crashed that frat party, and boy did it feel good to take someone down in a way that did not involve suppressive fire: a welcome break from the daily grind…

PING!

The sound of gunfire rang out across the room as a bullet whizzed by the back Ellis' head, forcing him to abandon his ass-whooping to dive instinctively behind a bureau, his hands flying towards his shot gun.

PINGPINGPINGPINGPING!

"Shit!" he cursed, peeking out from behind his cover as he pumped the stock. "Leave it ter a bunch o' limp noodles ter' bring a gun ter' a fistfight…"

"You try my patience boy!" the smaller man roared, his rifle trained on Ellis' hiding spot as he sprayed a burst of shells in his direction, riddling the boy's cover with lead. The rustic pulled back, but lacked the quickness to completely avoid the angry hail of bullets sent his way as one of the shells grazed his arm. Hissing in pain, he drew one of his hands to his shoulder.

He was no stranger to firing at the enemy. However, the sensation of having them fire back was completely alien to him. After all, any zombies he'd seen lacked the intelligence to fire guns. All except... well, she was a special case.

He felt his heartbeat quicken as a surge of adrenaline electrified his trembling body. He liked it.

Screw that. He loved it.

Mortal peril be damned, this was the greatest rush he'd felt in a while. Besides, considering the lifestyle he'd lead for the past month, coupled with his youthful certainty of his own invincibility, the fear of death had devolved the point where it was but a laughable pastime. Too bad Keith wasn't here to share in the fun...

"Kill all sons of bitches…" he smirked as he eyed his shotgun, recalling the first time he fired it as he charged out of that Savannah motel with reckless abandon, peppering anything stupid enough to get close with a hail of molten lead. Seemed like ages ago, given how much had happened. Now… on to business...

"REMEMBER ME YOU DAMN HICK?" roared a deep voice to his side as savage blow connected with his left cheek, knocking him sprawling. Groaning, the boy looked up with to see the bleeding form of Vince looming over him, a manic grin spread across his pulped features. Crap, the brute must've snuck around the side as his companion kept him pinned with suppressive fire…

"Guess I was a bit soft with you last time…" the large man growled, hoisting the dazed boy up before he could recover. "But don't worry…" he continued, bringing his knee up into the rustic's abdomen, allowing him to keel over before bringing both fists down upon his back, slamming his adversary into the ground. "I won't make that mistake this time!"

"Damn right yeh' won't…" the youth groaned, eliciting a swift kick to the ribs from Vince, silencing him. His adversary snorted in satisfaction, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose, a contented smirk blooming across his bruised features.

"How tasteless," his companion sighed disdainfully, pointing his rifle at the youth's head. "You're lucky we aren't the killing type, boy."

"Yeh' had me fooled," Ellis grunted, earning another kick from Vince. The man with the gun smiled.

"Listen," he replied calmly as he knelt beside the boy, pressing the barrel of his gun against his exposed temple. "For obvious reasons, I don't want to waste any more bullets than I already have on you. Surely someone who's survived as long as you understands how precious ammunition is in these... _interesting_... times. Hell, were it not for the fact that we were looking to conserve resources and avoid detection, Vince and I just might have let you join our crew… Though I don't think you and him would have gotten along well together…"

"Yeah, if I had mah' ass whooped by a sum feller' half mah' size, ah'd be pissed too,"the farm boy sniggered before Vince stomped down on his right leg, turning his amusement to agony.

Luckily, nothing felt broken, but things could easily go that route if he continued to run his mouth. In a rare case of clarity, he silently resolved to be serious for the duration of the encounter. Hacking out a mouthful of bloody spittle to clear his throat, he spoke once again:

"Well... at the rate yer' friend is pulpin' me, ah'll end up shittin' blood ternight. Uh, ah' don't want that, so why don't y'cut ter deh' chase, bud. What do yuh want from me?"

The man smiled, intrigued by the boy's spirit. "Only any supplies you might have. You know, your shotgun, any spare shells you've got on you, that medkit hanging from your waste, some food if you've got it… Oh, you can keep the bat. To leave you alone and weaponless in an area as infested as this…" his voice trailed off as his eyes flickered grimly towards a nearby corpse, "well… well, we'd be no better than the infected, would we? After all, we're survivors, not murderers…"

At those words, Ellis hacked a dry laugh, a mischievous smile curling across his bloodied features. "Heh, survivors… right…"

The man cocked his head to the side in curiosity, unsure of how to react to the boy's amusement.

"You find this prospect funny?"

"Nah'…" the country boy replied, confidently locking eyes with the armed man, "just thinkin' about how screwed y'all are…" his gaffe triggering a laugh from Vince.

"Please elaborate," replied the armed man with a chuckle, "how a boy, weaponless and alone, intends to—"

"Ah' never said ah'I was alone," Ellis interrupted, stifling a laugh as a blunt impact of bone on bone echoed across the room. Shocked, the man looked up to see his large companion sway stupidly in the air, his eyes rolling up in his head before collapsing senseless against the bloodied vinyl, a vicious welt blossoming from the back of his bald head.

"Never even heard me enter the room…" came a high, clear voice as a girl no older than twenty rose to stand in the place of his fallen companion. "Makes me wonder how you boys have lasted this long in a hellhole like this..."

Unperturbed, the armed man whistled, rising to get a better look at this most comely interloper. Framed by the light of sunlit window, the girl was revealed to be of average height. A worn, hooded athletic jacket dyed a deep burgundy hugged her petite form well, tapering slightly at her small waist before widening pleasantly as it approached her hips. Her legs and lower arms were obscured by the bureau she stood behind, but he knew without a doubt that they too were shapely and pleasing. With the exception of two gossamer tufts framing either side of her face, her chocolate brown hair was pulled back taut into a wine-colored hair tie before spilling out into a full ponytail, which swished about playfully in the draft from the open window. Her face, though lean from the harsh lifestyle this hellish new world afforded, retained a slightly round shape, with high cheekbones, thin lips, and pale skin. Finally, her eyes, no doubt the centerpieces of her comely figure, were nowhere to be seen, obscured by a pair of inky black shades. Not that he cared; he always liked a bit of mystery in his girls.

"Well well well…" the man grinned, his mind misted over with the growing fog of his parched libido, "you're the first girl I've seen in the past month who hasn't tried to eat me..."

"Don't tempt me..." replied the girl in a low voice, her features darkening.

The man ignored , he advanced forward, his grip on his rifle tightening as he brought the gun back in preparation for a blow. "Shame a pretty thing like you was caught in all this…" he continued, a dirty grin spreading across his face. "Shame I have to resort to something like this, not that you'll care… after all, you'll be unconscious through all of it… shame Vince won't be able to get in on this… then again…" his voice trailing off as he swung the oaken butt of his rifle forward "I'm not one to share."

Swish.

No impact resonated through the room the as girl nimbly ducked beneath the arcing bludgeon.

"Got some fight in you, huh? I like that…" the man remarked, swinging the butt back in the hopes of catching her off guard, but with no avail. The bludgeon slammed against the bureau, jarring his shoulder in the process as the girl stepped back with a speed he did not expect of her, grimacing at the man's antics.

"Stand still, will you?" he crooned playfully, kicking the bureau forward, prompting the girl to cry out in surprise as the metal desk collided with her waist, pinning her against the wall. The man grinned triumphantly as he rushed forward, his gun pulled back for the finishing blow, "It'll be less painful for both of us!"

A resonating crack echoed across the room. The man's eyes went wide as his gun was stopped dead.

"W-…W-…" he stammered, a cold tremor pulsing down his spine, the shock rendering any attempt at coherent speech as he stared dumbly ahead, his eyes following the girl's arm down to the point of impact…

"W-W-What the…"

The butt of his gun was held firm in her grip, her exposed hand wrapped around the splintered wooden end. However, what truly frightened him were her fingers, each of which almost a foot longer than they should have been, the skin blown open in perpetual tatters about halfway up the length of each, giving way to murderous stretches of sharp bone whose dagger-like tips had buried themselves deep within the ruined wood. This girl… damn… this girl had claws. Good God… this girl had claws!

"Shit…" he breathed, panic growing in his voice as his eyes danced between her hands, the pale skin covering her face, her sunglasses…shit, he'd seen traits like this before. A glimmer of horrified recognition flashed across his mind…

"Shit!"

"Warned yeh, bra..." sighed a southern-leaden voice from below. This was too much. With a terrified scream, the man lost control, releasing his hold on his rifle before whipping a pistol from his holster with trembling hands…

"Shit! Shit! SHIT! SHIIIIIIIIIITTTTT!" he screamed as he open-fired on the girl, shuffling backwards as he did.

The sound of shattering plastic reverberated across the room as a pair of ruined sunglasses hit the floor with clatter. With a single shove, the bureau exploded from the wall. Freed from her confinement, a blood-curdling shriek erupted from his target, spreading her arms wide as she charged the man, covering the distance between them in two powerful strides. Screaming in terror, the man's rough voice cracked as he tripped over one of the many corpses littering the room, prompting him to fall backwards. With a blurring sweep of her arm, the pistol was knocked from his hand, leaving deep, bloody furrows in its place. She was on top of him now, her face mere a mere foot from his. Her mouth gaped open in a fresh shriek, revealing twin rows of razor sharp teeth while her eyes, revealed to be a hellish crimson, burned into his with the fury of a thousand molten coals. Clutching his bloodied hand, he couldn't help but stare into the face of this eerie banshee, his blood frozen in absolute fear as she raised her right arm, his blood dripping off her talons. Never in his life would he have thought that the face of death would be this frightening… or beautiful.

Her arm dropped.

"WWWWWIIIIIIIIITTTTTTTTCCCHHH HHH!" he screamed, tears of terror streaming down his face, the entirety of his being focused upon the pale entity tasked by the fates to end him…

"ZOEY!" shouted a voice from behind her.

As if a switch were flipped, everything stopped. Her arm froze inches from the man's trembling form. Her mouth closed as the bloodlust faded from her face, replaced by a look of frightened realization. With a thud, her arms hit the ground limply, her claws clicking against the vinyl as she pulled her body off of her weeping victim. Her head bowed shamefully as her breathing quickened, her flow of thought intensifying. The man saw all this through his teary vision, unsure of how to process such an outlandish turn of events. The strange young witch didn't seem pleased. Was that shock reflected in her eyes? No, it couldn't be… Why, if he hadn't known any better, he'd say she looked remorseful, but how?...

A commanding click split the air.

The battered youth was on his feet now, his cold blue eyes burning with anger. His body was a patchwork of bruises, while twin rivers of blood flowed freely from his nose. Yet he stood tall and resolute; he'd survived too long to waver in such matters. In his hands rested the shotgun, pumped and ready, the thick barrel pointed menacingly at the cowering thief.

"We'll be takin' yer guns now," he began coldly, "All of them. And any ammo yeh might have as well. Oh, and that medkit yeh got hangin' on yer' belt'll be nice as well."

Whimpering, the weaponless man kicked the pistol forward in the youth's direction, unclipping the red plastic kit from his side before tossing it forward as well. Nodding at this gesture of surrender, the boy stooped down pick something up before tossing a long object towards the man. With a yelp of surprise, the bandit caught it, his eyes widening as they ran up and down the crooked form of the boy's metal baseball bat.

"Oh, you kin' keep the bat," the southerner remarked with a grin. "After all, ter' leave yeh alone and weaponless in an area as infes'tud as this…" his voice trailed off as he stifled a chuckle, "well… well, we'd be no better than the infected now, would we?"

Wiping the tears from his face, the bandit snorted, weighing the bat curiously in his hands.

"Heh… survivors not murderers, eh?"

Ellis' grin widened. "Somethin' like that…"

And with that, he fired.

The man yelped with surprise as a cloud of lead bit into the ground just a foot shy of his position.

"Now git the hell outta here…" the southerner growled, thin tendrils of smoke curling their way out of his gun. "Before ah' make yeh' wish yeh'd bin' carved open by her."

Nodding frantically, the bandit scrambled to his feet before running out of the room, squeaking as he went. Once again the room was silent, but not for long. Ellis wouldn't allow it.

"YEEEEEE-HAAAWW!" The youth shouted, swiping at the air with a triumphant fist. "We whooped em'… We FREAKIN' WHOOPED 'EM!"

The southerner let out yet another jubilant holler, surveying the supplies they'd won. "Uh, let's see…" he began, raising his index finger towards his winnings. "One rifle… one pistol, magnum from the looks of it… a medkit… JESUS!" he shouted excitedly as he plopped down on a nearby bureau, unable to stem the rush of victory that boiled away through his blood.

"And that bandit…" he chuckled, "That WUSSY BANDIT! CHRIST! AH'D BET MAH HAT THAT GUY FREAKIN' PISSED HIMSELF!" He finished, roaring with laughter.

"Why, ah' haven't seen somebody that scared since the time me and Keith dressed up as cops an' tazed the shit out of a frat house…" he paused to wipe a tear from his cheerful features.  
"Yeah…" he continued, turning towards the silent girl by his side, "So me and Keith had this friend who had just joined the police force, an' we decided to celebrate, but…" he paused, finally noticing his pale companion's sentiments. The smile vanished.

"Zoey?..."

The girl didn't respond, but remained seated upon the cold vinyl. Her back was hunched, her head bowed, while her clawed hands rested solemnly upon her lap like mournful spiders. Fresh blood had splattered across one of them, and judging from the stain on her pant leg, she had already tried to wipe it off. But it wasn't that easy. Blood was hard to wash off. A mournful sigh escaped her pale lips.

"I cut him…" she began quietly, her eyes fixed upon the blood. "Hell, I could have done a lot more… I would have too if I hadn't snapped out of it…" She turned to face him, her red eyes wet, shiny slivers half-hidden by her squinting lids. Her hands stiffened into fists, her sharp fingertips tearing at sleeves of her jacket.

"Shit…" she cursed weakly, "I just… I just… I—"

"Yeh' just saved mah' ass," the southerner interrupted, his voice firm as he crouched down to her level behind the bureau. He didn't want her to look in the direction of the window any more than she had to. He knew how much the light hurt her eyes...

A weak smile spread across her pale features.

"Yeah... I guess you're right," she sighed, raising her eyes to meet his. "Thanks..."

Almost locking eyes with her, the southerner quickly averted his gaze. This was the first time he'd seen her up close since the bridge, before—his gaze flickered towards her claws—before _that_ had happened to her. She was pretty then, with a healthy tan and deep, emerald eyes to match: "_ah'_ _fiiiiinnne piece ah' work_", as Keith would've said. But now... no, it was best not to linger on such thoughts…

"Uh, yer' bleeding..." he mumbled shyly, pointing a finger towards the gash arcing across the left side of her face, still refusing to meet her eyes. "Must've been the same bullet tha' knocked yer' shades off."

She paused, bringing her right claw to her face as she searched for the wound as the other hand groped for the medkit, only to be stopped by another. She looked up.

Nu-uh," he said softly, his blue eyes focused intently at a stretch of wall just beyond her shoulder, "ain't no way ah'm lettin' you patch yerself up. Not with yer …" his speech stopped short as he searched for the right words. "Not with yer… uh, not with yer… _hands_… like that." Zoey's hand clenched, trembling for a moment before retreating, allowing Ellis to pick up the red plastic box.

She lowered her head mournfully. "Yeah… I guess you've got a point, Ellis..." she whispered, "I'd probably just end up more cut up than before…"

"Damn right," the boy agreed distractedly as he fished a medium sized piece of gauze, a roll of tape, and a shiny pair of surgical scissors from the kit, so intent upon not meeting her eyes that he completely missed his vulgar choice of words. Carefully, he placed the gauze upon the pale skin just above her right eyebrow before securing it gently with a strip of medical tape, trying not to think about how soft her skin was, eliciting forbidden thoughts to flow once more…

Yes, she was definitely pretty back then. But now... well, he honestly didn't know. Nor did he want to. He'd shot down too many of the hellish creatures she now resembled to call her breed beautiful. Pitiful, enigmatic, and sad, perhaps; but certainly not beautiful. He'd hate to have his memories of her linked to the horrors inflicted upon him by those monsters. Worse, what would happen if upon getting a good look at her, he found his attraction towards her intact? Would that mean he possessed some weird fetish for zombies? A shudder ran down spine as he considered the implications of such a trait.

_Yeah... an' next thing ah' know, ah'll be trying ter smooch a boomette, or worse, a spitter..._

A bit of puke came up his throat at the last thought. Stifling a gag, he swallowed burning broth disgustedly…

_Ain't no way in hell ah'm goin' that far…_

"Any luck with this room before those goons interrupted you?" Zoey asked softly, her obvious attempt at trying to sound off-handed failing miserably as a flickering hope laced each and every word that rolled off her tongue. Ellis paused, shifting his weight about uncomfortably.

"No…" he admitted, his eyes downcast "just ah' bunch o' records and inspection signatures… but ah'm sure we'll eventually find somethin'. Ah'm sure of it…" he declared firmly. "How 'bout you?"

She shrugged, disappointment spreading across what he could see of her pale features. " A lot of information about the flu. Like how to contain it, sterile techniques, infection patterns…" she admitted, her voice dropping as she continued, "but nothing important... nothing pertaining to… a cure."

The last two words dragged painfully out of her throat. Even Ellis winced at the pain in her voice. An awkward silence ensued as the infected girl brooded upon her latest endeavor while the farm boy silently continued with first aid, unsure of how to respond to his companion's building depression.

A tense sigh broke the silence. Ellis' hands stiffened as he felt a shudder run down her pale, thin form. A faint noise issued from Zoey's throat. Weak, tiny, and almost inaudible, but undeniable in pitch and identity: she had just sobbed.

"Damn…" the girl breathed, her weak voice laced with frustration, fear, and insecurity.

"Damn… it was stupid of me to hope…" her fingers clenched against the floor, scratching deep furrows into the carpet. "I mean, not like we'd even be able to do anything even if we did find something, right? Christ, I don't know two shits about medicine…" she continued hopelessly,

"Stupid stupid stupid stupid…"

"C'mon," the southerner said comfortingly, "this is only the firs' hospital yeh've searched… now let's get back ter the safehouse before the others start wunder'n where we two bin' off to. "

"Yeah, right… the safehouse…" she echoed sadly, as the two slowly rose to their feet. She looked up at him, causing the country boy to once again avert his gaze. Her expression darkened.

_Am I really that scary?... Am I really that ugly?... Frightening to the point where he can't even look at me?..._

"Sorry…" she began sadly, keeping her insecurities to herself as the two walked down the abandoned hallway, their newly acquired gear in tow, pausing only to step over the moldering corpse of a woman sprawled across their path. "You must think I'm stupid…"

"Stupid?" the southerner chuckled, staring straight ahead. Talking to her was so much easier when there was no chance of locking eyes… "Why would ah' think that?"

She didn't reply, unable to say anything without risking crying as she weakly shrugged her shoulders.

"No." Her companion piped up again, answering her unspoken question. "Ah' don't think its stupid ter want ter find a cure…" he continued stiffly, fighting the urge to face her.

"There's nothing wrong with wanting ter' be normal again."

Zoey laughed weakly, as if relieved of some uncertainty. "A one-liner fit for the movies, Ellis…" she remarked as she pushed open the door to exit the abandoned medical center. Sunlight spilled across her pale form, causing a stabbing pain to shoot across her eyes as she stumbled backwards, raising one of her spider-like hands shield her face from the piercing onslaught.

"Awww shit," Ellis groaned, "Ah' furgot they broke yer' sunglasses…"

Zoey hissed in agreement, silently hating how prone she was to feral outbursts whenever exposed to irritating stimuli, particularly those associated with light and sound.

" Uh... 'ere," the southerner began awkwardly, extending his baseball cap forward, "cover yer face with this till' we get ter the safehouse…"

A red eye peeked out from behind her hand, flicking between the hat and the boy who offered it. "Thanks," she replied gratefully, lowering her hand to accept his offer.

"No worries…" the southerner replied, as he handed her his cap. "Just don't cut it, it's mah' favori—"

Their eyes met. Not for long, admittedly. But for Ellis, it was more than enough.

As if struck by lightning, the boy flinched, shaking his head from side to side to dispel the heavenly vision he'd just seen, but it was too late. The damage had already been done.

_Shit… This can't be happening. This can't be happening! Ah' ain't becomin' no necrophiliac… No way in hell that ah'm—_

"Are you alright?" a clear voice asked, jolting him back to reality. He blinked, readjusting his focus.

"Y-Yeah…" he began slowly, his eyes locked on the ground as he rubbed the brown scruff covering the back of his neck awkwardly before chancing a glance upward. Her face was obscured by his hat.

The coast was clear.

"Yeah…" he repeated, laying a tremulous hand upon her shoulder as he guided her out of the hospital and into the light of day. "Just had a weird sensation in mah' head, but it's gone now," he continued, more to himself than her, knowing full well how wrong he was…

Behind the foamy exterior of the cap, the infected girl frowned… knowing full well that such a reaction was sparked from them locking eyes.

_My appearance just caught him off guard,_she thought dismally, trying not to seek comfort in the guiding hand placed upon her shoulder. But something else, a stronger voice from a recent past, welled up within her quietly: weak, ephemeral, but undeniably present.

_Get your head out of your ass, Zoey, you know full well what that look was. You've seen it before_...

The voice was silenced with a shake of her head, her ponytail whipping about in the golden sunlight. Ellis squinted up at the azure sky, his eyes unadjusted to the scalding Florida sun, unaware of the mental conflict swirling about his companion's head.

_You were just seeing things, Zoey…_came the dismal voice once again. _Don't get your hopes up. Besides, it's not like you saw anything in him before you were infected. You're just attention-deprived now, looking for a sign from anyone or anything to prove that you're still attractive…_

The infected girl sighed as the string of sobering truths truth flitted across her train of thought, halting any further progress.

_Keep dreaming, sister..._

_Maybe so_, came the stronger voice once again_, but that doesn't stop you from being friends. After all, he is probably one few people left that are close to your age..._

The corners of her mouth twitched at the thought. Maybe her plight wasn't as bad as she thought...

"Oh, and just for the record, he did piss himself," she announced offhandedly.

"Git-out," came the southerner's reply, his voice not unlike that of a kid in a toy store.

"No, I'm serious… I smelled it," she assured him, struggling to stifle a giggle as her companion burst into laughter.

"Jeez, Zoey…" the boy huffed between laughs, "Ah ain't seen nobody piss themselves since the seventh grade, when me an' mah' friend Keith…"

His voice paused as thoughts of past experiences mixed with reluctant infatuation cut through his confidence.

"Never mind."

Zoey stopped.

"Why?"

The southerner shrugged, poking at crack in the dry pavement with his boot.

"Well… It's just… y'know… Uh, mah' stories kin be annoyin' "

Beneath the exterior of the baseball cap, Zoey smiled. "Did I ever tell you I studied film before all this?"

"You? Why ah' had no ah'dea."

"Yeah… funny right? Anyway, I chose to study movies because I love a good story, and let me tell you, if there's one thing I learned, it's that there's no such thing as a bad story."

At her words, the youth snorted.

"Ah' guess you ain't heard enough o' mine."

At his declaration, the infected girl turned in his direction, pulling the cap from her face for a split second. Her red eyes squinted into his as she cocked an eyebrow confidently.

"Try me."

The farm boy paused, caught off guard by the recent eye contact, rendered mute where he stood. His tongue stumbled over itself as he raced to find the right words, until they just flowed freely: the right words were the ones he'd been saying all along. Never had talking to a girl been this easy for him, and taking solace in the thought, he forgot his surroundings, surrendering to the throes of a newfound bliss: a bliss that can only come from a true and genuine friendship.

"Well… girl, you asked for it…"

Thus, the two companions slowly walked back to their place of refuge, their heads buried in a cloud of wistful thoughts, unaware of their similar plights: an ignorance that was simultaneously joyful and disappointing.

But ignorance is not perpetual, and thoughts rarely remain secret.

However, for now all was good, and nothing, not even the withering landscape could distract. For now, they were contented. For now, such would suffice.

**To be continued…**


	2. Conman

Disclaimer: I neither own nor seek profit from the Left 4 Dead Franchise. Such is the property of Valve, and such it shall remain...

A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. To the two guests who I cannot contact via PM, thank you for your thoughts! You have no idea your attention pleases me. To all who faved, followed, or simply took the time to read, I thank you as well, and wish you only the best in all of your reading and writing endeavors!

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**2: Conman**

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"_Kill me…"_

_His hands trembled, chilled by the morbidity of the situation. There was no way he could do it; there was no way he could kill her._

"_Zoey—"_

"_Please, Francis. I don't have time. You know there's no other option." _

_He swallowed hard, his once-unbreakable scowl shattering as he stared into her pleading eyes. Horror and pity tore at his soul as her face paled before him. Her skin, once a healthy tan, was now several shades lighter than it once was. Chalky white streaks spread across her hair, while the cool green in her eyes was slowly consumed by a fierce crimson. Yet even now, he saw no monster, but a legacy: a legacy he had promised to protect…_

_A sick squelching interrupted his thoughts as she lost her grip on the sink's white porcelain and keeled over, a thick stream of blood pouring from her mouth. _

"_Please…" she gurgled, bringing her spasming hands to her gut. "It hurts… just end it...please…"_

_A sickening series of cracks echoed across the bathroom as the poor girl's skeleton began to reform, joining the growing host of organs that had succumbed to the virus' relentless spread. His grip on the gun tightened as he pressed the barrel against the clammy skin of her forehead. He could feel her body stiffen._

"_No…" came a voice behind him. "This doesn't feel right… I don't like this"_

_She looked up and he flinched. There was barely any green left in her eyes, and the red had begun to spread to the sclera. _

"_Louis, please… " she whispered, tears running down her face. "Don't—"she paused to swallow a sob, "Don't make this harder than it already is."_

"_Like hell I will!" the former analyst snapped as he turned to his brutish companion. "C'mon, Francis. Don't go along with this madness. Remember the bridge? We promised Bill we'd take care—"_

"_Louis!" she shouted._

"_I will not be silenced! Bill died to protect you!"_

"_Bill died on his own terms with the knowledge that he was protecting those he cared about!" She snapped, a low snarl building in her throat, causing both men to cringe. She must have noticed, for her face darkened as she lowered her head shamefully, blood trickling from the corners of her mouth._

"_Why can't I get that chance? Why—"her voice choked on a sob. "W-why can't I choose to die as myself and not as…" she grabbed a lock of her pale hair, eyeing it with disgust. "something I hate?"_

_A long, hard sigh slithered past his rough lips. Slowly, he raised the shotgun to her head. He stared into her tear-streaked face, her eyes, though filled with the same murderous red he'd come to fear over the past month, still gleamed with all the fervor he'd come to expect from her. _

_His trigger finger froze._

_He grunted, pushing the gun barrel closer to her, planting it once again upon the paling skin of her forehead._

_She cringed. Her eyes were closed now, as if bracing herself for her approaching demise. _

_His breathing quickened as he pumped the stock, his flinty eyes locked on her head._

"_Francis don't…"Louis whispered behind him, but he was hardly listening_

_His breathing was hard now, his trigger finger tightening. He grunted again, preparing himself for the grim moment. He was ready to fire._

_But he couldn't; the damn finger wouldn't budge._

_Snarling in frustration, he tried again… and again… and again…_

_One of her eyes opened hesitantly._

"_Francis?" she whispered pleadingly. _

_His scowl deepened; his forehead furrowed. His muscled arms flexed. A strained growl escaped through gritted teeth._

_Then he broke._

_The shotgun clattered to the floor as he collapsed onto his knees. He lowered his head as tremors racked his body, hoping the others wouldn't see through his crumbling façade. _

"_Francis…" _

"…_can't do it…" he murmured._

_She cocked her head to the side._

"_What?" _

"_I can't do it!" he repeated angrily, frustrated with his own weakness. _

"_No…" Zoey whimpered, panic growing in her voice as several cracks rang across her spine, each one shooting a knife of pain into her back. "Please Francis… it has to be you. Louis doesn't have the balls to—" _

"_Zoey please! This isn't a question of masculinity!"_

"_WELL THEN DO IT! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" She screeched, whipping her head up in a feral snarl to face a startled Louis, her lips peeling back to reveal sharpening teeth which slowly pushed out from her bleeding gums. _

_It looked painful._

"_Z-Zoey…"the analyst stuttered mournfully, raising a hand to his polished scalp._

_At the sound of her name, her scowl dropped. Guilt clouded her graying face. _

"_Louis… I'm…I'm sor—"_

_Snap!_

_Her apology was cut short as a wave of seething agony, worse than any of its forerunners, shot up her fingertips. Her red eyes widened with horror as the bones in her hands began to lengthen… straining against the skin._

"_No… Oh God, No… Please!... Oh G-G-G-God…"_

_Pop!_

_Her agony climaxed as her fingertips tore open one by one, skin and nail giving way to nightmarish stretches of sharp bone that pushed out relentlessly, passing six inches in length with no sign of stopping …_

_Pop! Pop! Pop! _

"_OOOOHHHH G-G-G-G-GOD!" She shrieked fearfully, panic rocking her form. "I DON'T WANNA BECOME ONE OF THEM! I WANNA STAY ME! I WANNA STAY ME! PLEASE LET ME DIE AS MYSELF! FRANCIS PLEASE! KILL ME! KIIIIIIILLL MEEEE NOOOOW!"_

"_Zoey I—"_

_SMACK!_

_His reply was cut short as the poor girl began to writhe about, one of her grey arms knocking the gun from his hand with frightening force._

_He felt a hand grabbed by the leathery scruff of his vest before jerking him backwards. An angry grunt rasped its way past his lips. _

"_Wha? Gettoffa me!" he growled. _

"_C'mon, Francis… We gotta get out of here!"_

"_But—" he grunted as he reached for his gun._

"_LEAVE IT!" his comrade shouted as Zoey loosed another agonizing shriek._

"_BUT ZOEY!" he screamed._

_The grip on his vest trembled._

"_Francis…" came the low reply, as familiar sobs began to issue from what remained of his companion. "Zoey's gone…"_

"_Like hell she is!" he shouted, shoving the smaller man off him before grabbing his gun angrily. _

"_Wait, Francis… what…?" _

_He didn't answer, training the barrel on the sobbing wretch before him. His face hardened as the sobs turned to the warning growls he'd come to hate so much, but this time he did not falter. His form remained resolute. He had a death wish to fulfill— a death wish he was too cowardly to perform in life, and there was no way in hell he was going to be a coward._

_After all, he HATED cowards._

"_Francis!" Louis shouted, his entreaty falling once again on deaf ears._

_He had come this far… he would not back down. He owed her that much._

"_Sorry this didn't come sooner…" he murmured, his vision blurring as the witch stared at him with murderous eyes, a vicious screech building in its throat. A lone tear, unnoticed amidst the recent havoc, rolled down his cheek._

"_Goodbye, Zoey…"he growled through gritted teeth, pulling the trigger._

"_FRANCIS!"_

"Hey Francis!"

The biker blinked.

"Francis," Louis repeated, a wide grin spread across his ebony features. "The lady was asking you a question.

Scowling, he grunted curiously, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he did.

"I hate mornings…"

The former systems analyst snorted in amusement, motioning to his right before sipping from a dirty coffee mug.

With another grunt, he turned to the side to see an African American woman in her mid-twenties leaning against the safe house table; an amused smirk plastered across her thick, espresso colored lips.

"It's Francis, right?"

"Hrrm," he grunted, his scowl as stolid and unmoving as ever.

"Well, Francis, hun, how do you like your coffee? We've got Columbian and hazelnut right now, but we just found a bag of decaf in one of the pantries if you're interested."

His brow furrowed.

"Coffee…" he grumbled disdainfully, as if it were a dirty word. "I hate coffee."

She shrugged, turning away.

"Suit yourself, hun…"

He cocked an eyebrow, staring on curiously for a few moments before turning grumpily to his familiar comrade.

"What else can a man find to drink in this shithole?"

"Not much I'm afraid," the former analyst began, setting down this mug before ducking out of view behind the table to open one of the cupboards.

"Let's see here… canned peaches… canned pineapples… condensed milk… wait—"

A gruff smirk spread across his lips as his companion looked up from his search, his eyes narrowing with annoyance.

"You can't be serious."

His smirk widened. Louis rubbed his brow in frustration.

"Ooooh _jeez_, man… really? It's eight in the morning."

"Never stopped me before," he replied daringly, crossing his tattooed arms across his chest. "Now, does this shithole offer anything stronger?"

Louis shrugged, exhaling in defeat before disappearing once again behind the table. "Whatever you say, big guy. I'm not your mama…."

"Damn straight you aren't," replied the biker.

"Lucky, too…" came a dry voice. "I could barely put up with you for one night watch, let alone an entire childhood."

Louis' familiar high chuckle was heard from behind the table as the new woman stifled a laugh in her mug. The biker whirled around, searching for the perpetrator with angry eyes.

"I'm over here, bub." came the dry voice once again.

Francis turned to his right. "You?"

"Yes," replied the newcomer calmly, as he seated himself across from Francis. "Me."

The biker's eyes narrowed.

"You…" he growled, grabbing the man by the silky fabric of a suit so stained and worn from the month's exertions, that to say it was once white would be little more than a hesitant guess.

"FRANCIS!" Louis shouted.

Immediately the man's expression soured, his jaded green eyes glowering at the biker with condescending disdain.

"Unhand me," he whispered coldly, his hands planted calmly in his pockets, as if the thuggish man before him was not worthy of his attention.

The biker didn't budge, but continued glare at the slick man before him.

"You've got some nerve…asking me something like that," he growled, pulling his face closer to the object of his distaste. "After what you did last night… after what you did to her… open firing on her like that…"

A snarl twitched at the corners of the man's mouth, a grim frown slicker than any gel or oil that kept his hair unnaturally greased.

"I did what I had to," he whispered evenly. "And I'd sure as hell do it again, given the chance. No life is worth more than my own. I've seen enough to not let any of those monsters within five yards of me, regardless of the company they keep."

"Why you—!"

"Let 'im go, son… it ain't worth it," came a deep voice.

The biker stiffened, craning his neck to side, his stony eyes flitting between the large, dark man now standing next to Louis before settling on the mulatto lady from earlier. A look of sad disappointment was spread across her creamy brown features, while her head shook slightly from side to side, as if in disapproval of the recent tension.

His scowl softened.

With a grunt, the biker shoved the man back into his chair before resuming his place at the table, refusing to lock eyes with the slimy smooth-talker.

"prick…"

"Oh, I'm the prick?" the man snapped angrily, standing up in annoyance. His earthy green eyes moved from each of the room's denizens, as if daring them to respond in agreement.

"Nick, enough's enough."

"Damn straight, Coach, enough is enough. You seriously can't be going along with these newcomers?"

The dark man took a step forward, his dark brown eyes locking with the conman's sharp glare. His large arms folded tensely across his broad chest, resting upon his rounded belly. A deep sigh left his throat.

"Nick… 'Dey gave us no reason to suspect. 'Dey came in good faith. What more could y'ask for?"

"What more could I ask for?" the con repeated sarcastically. "Oh… I don't know… perhaps that they should've brought a bottle of Bacardi and a redhead? Jesus Christ, Coach! ONE OF THEIR PARTY WAS A FUCKING WITCH!"

"Her name is Zoey," growled Louis, his voice dropping to a depth that surprised even Francis.

Nick raised his hands in faux apology.

"Sorry, my bad. I forgot those things had names—"

The conman's latest remark was cut short as Francis shot from his chair and punched him brutally across the face, knocking the smaller man straight into the table. With a snarl, Nick , swept his leg out, knocking the biker off his feet.

"Francis!" Louis shouted.

"Think you're the only one who knows how to fight, huh?" the suited man spat, jumping into the air, his knees landing hard against the leather of Francis' vest, before proceeding to lay a barrage of punches across the biker's exposed face.

"Stop…STOP!" the woman screamed.

But Nick wasn't stopping. The thug had asked for it, and by hell he would get it.

"Get up…" he snarled, grabbing the larger man by the vest as he hoisted him upward, his right first raised above him, his bloodstained rings glinting greedily in the dim light.

"AH' SAID ENOUGH!" roared Coach, pulling the conman from the biker, yanking both men from the ground by the scruffs of their necks with unexpected strength, knocking the room into an edged silence.

"The enemy is ou' there," the large man continued, nodding towards the safe house door. "We gotta enough on our plate dealin' wi' dem. We don' need ter fight wit' each other…"

Louis' eyes widened. "Coach!"

Click.

The large man turned to find himself inches from the bronzed barrel of Nick's magnum.

"Get your hands off of me, you damn fat-ass," the con breathed coldly, the threat stinging the older man like the chill of glacial ice. "Get your _fucking hands off of me…" _

The grip on his suit was released, and Nick landed on the ground with a thud; his gun remained trained on the room's denizens.

"Aw fuck it," he began, his voice trembling with anger. "Fine! Stay here, all of you! Fuck, I don't even know why I put up with you all for so long."

"Alrigh' Nick… jus' take it easy…" Coach rasped as he inched away from the angered conman, a bleeding Francis in tow.

"Shut up!" Nick yelled, pointing the gun at the large man with a trembling hand. "I've had enough, you hear? Enough!"

"Alrigh'… Alrigh..." replied the ex-footballer, helping Francis to a seat at the table.

"You," Nick breathed, flicking the magnum in the direction of Louis. "Your friend the biker, he had a shotgun didn't he?"

Louis nodded nervously, his lower lip quivering. The conman cocked his gun.

"Get it… before I crown him like the witch you sympathize with."

The former analyst stood frozen on the spot, unable to move, unable to think. Funny… he could gun down and evade hordes of feral quasi-humans with ease, but one angry man with gun could strike more fear in him than an infected ever could. That thought chilled him thoroughly; like a block of black ice sliding about the frostbitten walls of his stomach, his interior froze. The realization had hit him. In the same way one man could hold more compassion than all the infected in the world, so to could he hold more cunning and malice than even the nastiest abortion the virus had ever spawned…

His thoughts were cut short as a piercing bang shattered his eardrums, jolting him back to reality.

"HURRY UP!" Nick roared, smoke curling from tip of his magnum.

And with that, the former analyst limped from the room, nodding frantically as he did.

The lady looked on sadly. "Nick… no…" she pleaded.

The conman stared soberly at his former comrade, his gun still trained on Coach and Francis.

"You're smarter than this, Ro'…" he sighed disappointedly.

"Nick… please, if that witc— uh, that girl, was truly like the others, she'd have killed us last night before we even found out that she was infected."

"And the fact she's different makes her safe?" Nick countered.

Rochelle opened her mouth for a rebuttal, but upon finding none, and unable to deny the doubt clinging to her psyche, remained silent.

The conman nodded grimly. "That's what I thought…"

A wet cough brought his attention back to the biker, who had just spat a globule of blood onto the torn wood of the table.

"She's just a girl," he growled, trying to rise from his seat before being pushed back down by Coach's iron grip.

The conman sighed disdainfully, "and I'm just a man… Your point?"

"My point is that she's more scared of herself than you are of her," the biker snarled back.

"Exactly," Nick replied, his voice thick with condescension, as if he were talking to a fourth-grader, "that's what makes her so dangerous."

The uneven shuffle of a wounded gait signaled Louis' return to the room. The conman turned to face him.

"Drop it and kick it here, before I blow your friend's face in," he ordered coolly.

The concrete grated as the metal barrel slid towards him as desired. With a watchful eye and a loaded barrel trained upon the others, Nick knelt down to retrieve his prize.

"Mossburg 590… 20-inch" he murmured affectionately as his grip tightened on the cold, black metal. "Haven't seen one of these since my brush with the Marcellos..."

" Well what do you know?" Francis spat, "The conman's a mobster."

At the accusation, the "mobster" smirked, shrugging off-handedly as he slunk to the door.

"_Cosa Nostra_… eh?" he declared, slinging the shotgun haughtily over his shoulder before reaching for the door with his free hand, only to have it open before his fingers touched the knob.

"—An' then ah' says, ' dat was mah' truck you were screwin' with!' before Keith tazed 'im in the face!" chuckled the youthful newcomer, eliciting a slight giggle from his companion, whose face was hidden behind a baseball cap clutched in her knife-like claws.

"Christ, Ellis…" Nick sighed in annoyance, drawing the two's attention.

"Oh hey, Nick! Ah' was jus' tellin' Zoey about the time ah'—"

"FRANCIS!" his companion screeched as her red eyes caught sight of the bleeding biker.

"Awwwww shit," Ellis groaned, "We leave fer' two hours an' all hell breaks loo—"

He froze mid-statement , his pale blue eyes locked on the shotgun barrel pointed menacingly in his direction.

"I am _so_ not in the mood for your babbling," Nick moaned, his voice dripping with distaste.

"Nick?..."

"Last time I checked, that was my name…"

"but… why?"

Nick sighed with frustration, "Why? Because I'm pissed that coach ate the last of our candy bars."

"Wait… really?"

"Damn Ellis! No! How stupid are you? Because of that _bitch _standing next to you!"

"Hey now wait jus' ah second…" growled the youth angrily.

"...bitch?..." came a small voice.

All eyes turned to the center of the room. Her thin arms were wrapped around her worn hoodie, while her eyes, glistening orbs of the deepest crimson locked upon the conman.

"I'm… I'm not a bitch…" she whispered tearfully, clearly hurt by the comment.

The conman's face darkened.

"Well you sure cry like one… another symptom of your condition?"

"S-symptom ?..." she whimpered, bringing a claw-tip to her mouth as the realization hit her. "No…"

Nick nodded in affirmation, as if a question had been answered.

"Tell me, you two…" he inquired, his eyes flickering between Louis and Francis. "Prior to our rendezvous, did either of you sustain any injuries, courtesy of miss witch here?"

The biker frowned, staring at the conman with the anger of a cornered beast. "She was in pain, you bastard! She couldn't be held accountable for her injuries!"

"Yeah, man!" chimed Louis, "the anatomical changes she experienced must've hurt like hell! And don't even get me started on what she goes through every time her eyes are exposed to bright light…"

One of the conman's eyebrows cocked upward.

"Answer my question."

"But that's not fair! How can you judge, you weren't even ther—"

"Hey!" Nick interrupted, his gun locked on the sobbing teen before him. "Uh… what's your name again?"

"Louis."

"Right_, Louis_…answer my question."

Louis grimaced, casting a sideways glance at his infected teammate, who had now buried her face in her devilish hands, whimpering sadly as her brown ponytail swished in sync with her shaking head. Cursing under his breath, he lowered his head in defeat.

"Yes…" he whispered in a strained voice.

Once again Nick nodded, "right… just as I thought."

"You don't understand…" grunted the biker, wiping the blood from his mouth.

The conman shrugged, unperturbed.

"You're right… I don't. But do you? Hell, do any of you?" he questioned, glancing about the room.

Silence.

His frown deepened.

"Exactly… I'm not willing to risk my life over something like _that," _he declared, motioning towards the whimpering girl.

"Yeh' nevuh' are," sighed Coach sadly.

Nick's eyes glinted coldly, his head shaking slightly.

"Wrong again, big guy," he began coldly, pulling back the collar of his rich blue shirt, revealing the tops of four wicked scars arcing across his exposed chest, "You have no idea…"

Muffled gasps filled the air as the big man stared on, dumbstruck.

"But I'm not like the others…" the witch declared shakily as she took a hesitant step towards the conman, as if unsure of her declaration. "I'm a survivor… I'm a survivor!"

Immediately, Nick trained the shotgun on her head with trembling hands, " stay back… you bitch..." he spat tremulously, his eyes filled with fear. "Stay back, or I'll silence you like the witch you are... I swear to God, I will end you if you come any fucking closer."

"I'm not a witch…" she whimpered pleadingly, staring at her twisted hands as tears streamed down her cheeks , "I'm a survivor…I have to be…"

The conman sighed, his gaze softening ever-so- slightly as a glint of pity flashed across his eyes.

"Yeah, kid… I wish it were so… I really do…" he murmured, before returning his attention to his former comrades.

"Well, I guess this is where we part ways…" he began stiffly.

Nobody replied; several stony glares and disappointed grimaces taking the place of any words that could be said. The conman swallowed, frustrated by the slight.

"Fine…" he declared, agitation once again building in his voice. "Take your risks… see if I care."

"Yeah…" coach replied in a low voice, "'an' you as well."

Nick nodded curtly, his gun still tremulously locked on the witch as he backed out of the house and into the street.

"Hey cupcake… erm, Zoey…" he began hesitantly, addressing the witch by name.

The witch looked up, her teary red eyes locking with his.

"It was nothing personal… just a matter of survival, right?"

The witch shook her head violently.

"Personal?..." she breathed, "after what you called me? After what you did to me? How can you even say—?"

Her retort was cut short as the safe room door slammed shut , obscuring him from their view.

Francis hacked another wet cough, fresh blood splattering across the table.

"I hate conmen…" he growled.

**To be continued…**

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Great story, hmm? What? You agree/disagree/courteously abstain? Well then what the F#:D are you reading this scribble for? Review!


	3. Half-Baked

**Disclaimer: **I no own Left 4 Dead. Me no credit, yes? Good. Me use words good.

**A/N I: **Holy Sh##! That's a ton of reviews and faves! Thank you all so much for your continued support. To the three guests (or are you simply one guest who leaves many reviews? O.O) who have commented thus far, thank you! College is back in full swing, but I'll do my best to maintain a bi-weekly updating schedule. Good luck to all of you. May you all have a productive and fulfilling spring.

**A/N II: **Trippy as this sounds, this chapter came to me as an idea in a dream. It's a little complex, but I feel it's about time Zoey received some psychoanalysis, especially considering her condition and all. As a polite warning, I humbly ask you not to scan this chapter; there is a strong possibility that such an act will leave you confused. Enjoy… :D

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**Half-Baked**

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"Not a witch… not a witch... _not a_ _witch_!" she spat in frustration, slamming the door behind her before keeling over the sink. The cold grate of breaking stone jarred her concentration as broad claws ground the granite countertop to powder, eliciting an annoyed growl from their owner.

She looked up and the same sight greeted her: that same pale face in the mirror, those same red eyes burning out from that same sea of grey.

_This isn't me…_

Tentatively, she opened her mouth. The figure followed suit; twin rows of iron barbs peeking out mockingly from behind grey lips.

Her heart sank.

"Not a witch…" she whispered sadly, plopping down on to the cold porcelain of the toilet, burying her head in her hands.

…"_Well you sure cry like one… another symptom of your condition?" the conman inquired disdainfully, addressing her as if she were little more than an animal …_

"Shut up…" she groaned, clutching her head tighter, wincing as the blade-like extensions to her fingers cut into the pale skin of her scalp. "I've lost my friends… I've lost my family… I've lost my body…I've lost my life… who'd react any differently?"

A strong voice welled up within her once again:

"_God damn it, Zoey! You did! You had the guts to fulfill your father's dying wish. You fought on valiantly as your family's sole legacy. Hell, you were even brave enough to assume unofficial leadership of the group following Bill's sacrifice! What the hell happened to you! Five days ago, you'd have never taken that conman's shit, but now all you could do was weep pathetically as he hurled insult after insult your way!" _

"…I…I could've stopped him at anytime…" she reassured herself.

"_Then why didn't you? He opened-fired on you last night for Christ's sakes! And now he walks out on you at gunpoint, belittling your friends as he does? JEEZ, GIRL! What kept you?"_

"I…I…" she mumbled, now thoroughly entangled in a web of thought.

"_Well? What took you? What happened?"_

"I…" she whispered, tears forming in her eyes as she shut them tightly, shaking her head back and forth as the nightmare returned:

"_Answer me!..."_

_Her fears were given substance as the night unfolded before her eyes like ink spilled across a dry sheet of parchment, an impenetrable black flecked with silhouettes of terrifying detail…_

"I…"

_Timed with the staccato pang of gunfire, the blackness split before her in fiery splendor, only to return as quickly as it came. The pain of metal on bone… the scent of blood on his suit… a blood-curdling scream…_

"I…"

_More gunfire. Once again the calm was shattered like clay on rock as a loud bang tore through her eardrums. A pair of shattered shades struck the ground as she broke. A twinge of pain… her shades broken… a fire within… anger. Hatred. Stop! KILL!—_

"_ZOEY!"_

"ENOUGH!"

Her lower lip trembled as she lowered her hands from her face, allowing her wicked claws to curl in on her palm. Her face darkened with disgust as despair overtook her.

"What happened to me, they ask…?"she whispered mournfully, staring at her hands. "This happened…"

"My thoughts exactly, cupcake. What point is there in fighting when you fight for a thing that is no longer you?" sneered a familiar voice.

"You?..." she exclaimed, her head snapping upward to face the interloper in all his greasy glory, suit and all.

"You act as if you're surprised to see me…" Nick replied in a bored tone, "I thought witches could sense survivors within a four-hundred yard radius of their position… Or at least it seemed like it, given how pissed they'd get whenever I got that close…"

"I'm not a witch…" she replied sadly, wrapping her arms around her legs. "I just look like one..."

"Of course, muffin, whatever you say…" the conman crooned in false assurance, running his fingers through his slick brown hair.

"But it's true!" she shouted back.

"Ah yes," the conman replied sarcastically, "and I've probably slept with more women in my lifetime than there are remaining on earth. Oh, wait…"

A dirty smirk spread across his rugged features.

"You sick perv…" she spat, wincing as one of her sharp teeth snagged on her bottom lip, drawing blood.

The conman shrugged absentmindedly, adjusting his brass cufflinks. "Better to be perverted than pathetic, witch. Yet to be pathetic as such a strong creature… I fail to see how my masculine libido, expected of all men, is the greater perversion. What happened to the iron rose I saw at the bridge? You've got strength to match now, but you don't use it. Instead, you hide behind a veil of tears, clinging to companions who once looked to you for support like a fleck of dirt on an oily rag. Oh, and don't even get me started with that buffoon, Ellis…"

She flinched at the mention of southerner's name. Did he know?...

The conman seemed nodded knowingly, his grimace deepening.

" Paradoxical and pathetic, if you ask me. As such, your conflict, this inborn cacophony, is a perversion of the worst kind: a perversion of a perversion. And still! You have the audacity to accuse others of said atrocity, further perverting the very thing of which you charge me. Sick pervert am I? You are the one who is sick! You are the perversion!"

"Shut up… Shut up!... SHUT UP!" she screeched, clutching her head, fresh tears budding on the edges of her eyes, the crystalline fruits of her sorrow.

"SILENCE ME?" roared Nick. "I CANNOT BE SILENCED! I AM YOUR SHADOW! I AM NOTHING YOU UNDERSTAND AND EVERYTHING YOU DON'T! I AM SANITY! I AM INSANITY! I AM INSPIRATION! I AM MADNESS! I AM ONE! I AM ALL! I AM YOOUUU!"

"SHUT UP! THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE ANY SENSE!" she screeched, exploding from her seat and into the air.

He wanted strength? Well, hell, he would get it! She would tear that dirty smirk from his face. She would paint his suit red with his blood. He didn't deserve to be alive. He didn't deserve to be in one piece. She would cut him again and again until he couldn't be cut any smaller. He was but a wilting weed before her withering rage. He had to die. That damned conman had had to die!

Time seemed to slow down as she flew towards him. Three feet… two feet…one foot…

A smile spread across her adversary's face.

"You're gonna have to do better than that, cupcake…"

His suit seemed cleaner now; spotless, in fact. So white… so bright… she couldn't see. Light consumed her, setting her eyes aflame with a murderous pain that was all too familiar. She tried to cover her eyes, but the white would not be denied, burning through her hands, flooding through her eyelids.

"STOOOPPP!" she shrieked.

"Well why didn't you just say so?" laughed a familiar voice.

"Wait you—?"

"Come out!"

Her eyes flicked opened. Nick had vanished from view, yet she was still sailing through the air, her shocked reflection growing rapidly as she approached.

The mirror! She was going to collide with the mirror!

There was no time, but she had to think. Adrenaline flooded her figure as her eyes scanned the room's grubby exterior, desperate for something, _ANYTHING_, to alter her trajectory. The toilet was too far, but perhaps if she dug her hand into the sink below her…?

Too late!

Her grey body collided with the glassy surface, shattering the pristine equilibrium with a single impact. All around her, crystal shards fluttered about like confetti as they faded away into oblivion, leaving her to alone as she plunged into oblivion.

And plunge she did.

Falling through time? Falling through space? Falling through thought? She knew not as she flailed about, screeching in terror as the darkness of the void threatened to crush her out of existence. Then again, questions like "how", "when", and "why" mean little as one falls from the precipice of being. There is only one will, singular and resolute — the will to survive, the denial to succumb to the void: a brutal refusal that transcends all thought, all humanity, and indeed, all life.

Such was her state of mind as she continued her fall: screaming, flailing, clawing desperately at the emptiness that surrounded her. She continued to fall, what little hope that remained in her pale form leaking away into the darkness.

"I said come out!" shouted the familiar voice once again, as a strong grip yanked her backwards.

"But I don't wanna daddy. I don't wanna!" she yelled stubbornly as she was pulled from the depths of the closet.

But the large presence towering over her would have none of it.

"Zoey…" it rumbled.

"…don't wanna! don't wanna! don't wanna!..." she screamed, fat tears streaming down her round cheeks.

"Zoey!"

"…don't wanna wear it! Won't wear it! Don't wanna!"

"Look at me!" shouted the presence as two enormous hands, as warm as they were strong, pulled her small face to his.

"Zoey…" the presence continued, its large brown eyes staring comfortingly into hers, "why were you hiding from us?"

She sniffed, bringing a hand to wipe the tears and snot from her face.

"I don't wanna wear da' costume to da' par-tee, daddy! I don't wanna!" she sobbed, stomping her foot against the carpet.

"Awww, c'mon, Zo'…" the presence whispered comfortingly, "I thought you said you liked Mulan!"

"But I do, daddy! I reeeeeeaaaaaaallly do! I do!"

A look of puzzlement spread across the massive face before her.

"But then why don't you want to wear the costume? Why don't you want to go as Mulan?"

"_Because_ daddy!" she declared firmly, as if her reasoning were the most obvious thing in the whole-wide-world. "I don't wanna be Mulan! I wanna be me!"

At her words, a large smile spread across the face.

"Well then why didn't you just say so?" he chuckled, lifting her into the air with a sweep of his mighty arms, causing her to giggle playfully.

"Just don't hide from me again, okay?"he asked, his voice growing firmer while effortless remaining its gentle tone. "You've got to stand up for what you believe in, okay? All the big girls do that."

She lowered her head, squirming with discomfort. "Okay, daddy, I'm saw-reeeee"

A deep chuckle rumbled from her father's chest as two thick fingers raised her small face to his, her large green eyes reflected in the shimmering sea of hazelnut that were his.

"What does mommy say happens to problems you run away from?"

"They get biiiiiiggggeeer!" she squealed happily, spreading her arms wide as she did.

He chuckled once again.

"That right, Zo'… absolutely right," he replied affectionately, tapping the tip of her nose gently…

And with that happy exchange, the screen dissolved into snow.

Click.

"You never really did like costumes…"

At the sound of his voice, her gaze shot from the TV to source of that familiar rough drawl she loved so much.

There he was, reclining in the old couch they'd always sit on wearing that same ruddy green tee-shirt he always wore when off-duty. The navy jeans faded in all the right places… It was him. And she was here, sitting right next with him as if the nightmarish past weeks had never happened…

This couldn't be real… It just couldn't be…

"I missed you, Zo'…"

Her vision blurred with tears.

"D-D-Dad?"

He smirked. "I see you've been doing well."

She laughed.

"Y-y-yeah…" she chuckled tearfully. "Just about as well as any zombie apocalypse survivor can do, I guess…"

His smile broadened, his eyes shimmering with pride. "I'd expect nothing less from my own daughter."

"The daughter of a cop!" she added.

"heh… Yeah… a cop," he grunted, his features darkening. "You'd never know, given how long I lasted…"

Her lower lip quivered, her vision hazed with tears.

"Dad…I didn't last much longer."

"Zoey!"

He was on his feet, towering over her like he once did.

"What the hell does that mean?"

She shrugged shamefully, suddenly remembering herself as she felt her claws tear at the couch's soft exterior.

"Look at me, dad…" she sighed sadly, "I'm one of the very things I set out to destroy…"

She lowered her head, wiping tears from her face with her elbow.

"Heh… did I ever tell you why I never dressed up on Halloween?"she asked in a low voice.

He shrugged soberly. "You hated costumes. Everybody knows that…"

She smiled weakly, "yet I loved movies enough to design costumes for my work..."

"But you never wore one yourself, nor did you appear in any of your short films, not even as a cameo…" he completed.

She laughed sadly. "That was the point, dad. When you introduced me to movies, it was like giving me a taste of a brilliant new language: one I just had to figure out."

"And I'd say you did. Damn well, too, given the scholarship you received."

She nodded.

"That's why I like making movies, dad. It's like making a world on your own rules… a world in which you are in complete control… a world that was my own…"

The snowy static crackled and popped across the flickering screen, its grey light further accenting her pale features. Her hands trembled as her lips hung on her final statement, her voice breaking as it dragged its way past her pale lips.

"That world was shattered…"

"So you're just going to limp through ruins of what's left of it, eh cupcake?"

Her head shot upward, her gaze immediately intensifying as her eye betook the slick form of her antagonist re-formed.

"Heh… funny," the conman smirked. "A cupcake without a crutch is nothing more than half-baked, huh?"

"What have you done with him?" she growled, murderous red sparks flying from the fire in her eyes.

"Oh? You don't know…?" Nick sighed, turning his neck with utmost ennui to gaze upon the angry young witch before him, barely noticing as she tackled him to the ground with the force of a freight train.

"Don't play dumb with me, you bastard! Where is he?" she spat.

He smiled coldly. "Don't look at me, cupcake. After all, it was your doing."

"I… Me?" she asked, raising herself to her knees. The ground was hard, and as she readjusted her weight, she realized the conman was no longer beneath her.

"How?..."

He shrugged, dusting suit off several yards in front of her. "How am I supposed to know? That's for you to figure out… If you want to save him, that is."

Her eyes widened with panic.

"Save him?"

"That's what I said…" her replied off-handedly, fishing through his suit pockets for something.

Her eyes narrowed, the anger returning.

"And why should I believe you?" she hissed.

"I never said you should," he replied, still pre-occupied with searching his suit. "It's up to you to decide what to believe. Always was…"

Her glare intensified.

"Then I believe you're just a dream."

The conman froze, the cold glint of fear flickering across his frosted features. A nasty smile spread across her lips. She had him right where she wanted him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it…

"You're not real!" she spat. "That's why you have so much control here. This all just fake! Where am I? Where the hell am I? Where—!"

She stopped.

He was laughing. That bastard was _laughing_!

"Hey… are you listening to me? Hey!"

The conman continued to laugh, making no sign or motion to indicate he had heard her.

"Hey… Why are you laughing? _WHAT THE HELL IS SO FUNNY_?"

"What's so funny, the cupcake asks…" he laughed, tears rolling down his haggard features. "You!"

Her eyes widened with shock. Clearly, the tables had turned…

The conman smiled nastily.

"Wrong on both counts, kid!" he laughed, a glint of metal flashing from within his suit.

"Shame too… you were so close… half-baked indeed," he continued, pulling the TV remote from the folds of his clothing and pointing it at the shocked girl.

Zoey shook her head in disbelief.

"I'm sleeping… This is all a dream… It's all fake… It has to be!" she screeched.

"Well of course it's a dream!" he yelled triumphantly, his thumb resting contentedly on one of the remote's many buttons. "…But who said anything about this not being real? Hell, who said anything about you being asleep?"

Her eyes widened with confusion as she collapsed to her knees in defeat.

"Since when did you have control over my dreams, Nick?"

He smiled, pressing down upon the button as he did.

"Who said anything about me being Nick?"

Click.

And with that, her vision went dark, her mind consumed by a sea of sensations reminiscent of a broken past…

"…_But this is too good to be left unfinished!..."_

* * *

"_I have not…"_

With a strangled growl, the haggard remains of a girl slammed against broken wretch flailed about, salty bits of sand clinging to the ragged patchwork of bleeding cuts and scrapes that covered it's pale skin. Manic yellow eyes swiveled restlessly about their sunken sockets, while swaths of bloody foam frothed from the tattered remains of its mouth.

He stared on with disgust, his frown deepening as the creature bit into the cracked earth as it dragged itself pathetically forward, leaving behind a crusty smear of baked blood in its wake. Knowing the threat had passed, he walked alongside the gurgling wreck, his calm stride slowing to match that of his dying companion…

"…_come this far…"_

The harsh sun burned overhead, warping the desolate landscape with its heat. A fractured ribbon of bleached pavement stretched endlessly before them, while the hazy outline of the cityscape danced on in the distance.

Several times, he was struck with the temptation to turn around. Several times, he thought of turning back. Several times, he remembered those murderous red eyes. Several times, he remembered how foolish he truly was. His features hardened.

There was no turning back.

Staring down at the poor wench with disgust and pity, he raised the crowbar above his head to finish what he'd started. After all, what good was it to start a task only to leave it unfinished?...

"…_just to die now…"*_

* * *

Through the dark hallway, she ran, her bare feet thudding against the carpet. Her hair whipped wildly about. Sweat matted her brow as she gasped desperately for breath. Her legs burned for release, tensing with each frantic step she took. Perhaps, she could stop? Just for a second? What was a mere second in her life, anyway?

No.

Stop now, and she'd be caught. That couldn't happen; she refused to allow. Capture would signal an end not only to her, but to the others as well. That would _NOT_ happen, not while she still had strength. Not again…

"_Remember those zombie movies I used to sneak you into when you were a kid?"_

"_Heh… I remember how mad mom got when she found out…"_

"_Remember the part in all of 'em where they always had to shoot the one guy before he turned?_

"_We used to always make fun of that part…"_

"_I love you Zoey…"_

_"I love you too dad..."**_

A tear rolled down her cheek, steeling her resolve.

Never again...

There had to be a way out. There _had _to be. Snarling angrily, she shoved her shoulder into the wall, and it surprisingly, it gave way.

A door…?

Squealing with surprise, she fell forward into the dimly-lit room. Yet even in the gloom, she knew where she was. The dim outlines of seats... a massive blank screen stretched before her… the odor of stale popcorn… How could she ever forget?

"Who the hell do you think you are?" snarled a savage voice as bitter as it was animalistic.

The screen was alight with a new image. A familiar pale face snarled back at her, its massive red eyes burning into hers.

"How dare you try to imprison me!" It screeched. "How dare you deny my existence! Do you think I'm just going to stand by and let it happen? !"

"No…" she whimpered, backing against the wall as the screen grew larger, filling her field of vision.

"BITCH! I WILL END YOU! THE HOUR OF MY EMERGENCE IS INEVITABLE!"

"NO YOU WON'T!" she screamed, whipping her two pistols towards the screen, firing every round she had into the horrifying image.

"WONT! WON'T! WON'T! WON'T! WON'T!"

The figure flinched at the leaden volley as the screen fractured. From each crack sprung a pale mist, clouding her vision. An old terror leaked back into her soul.

"_Kill me…?" _hissed a voice from inside her head. "_You can no more kill me than you can yourself…"_

Whining in pain, she collapsed forward, a bolt of agony splitting her head.

"_Your guard is good, but it isn't perfect…" _the voice continued. _ "In every flicker of light, I lie in wait. I am but a second behind any ear-splitting sound. My essence flows through every pain you feel… The smell of futility hangs rank in the air. Eventually, an opportunity will present itself…"_

Her vision blurred as she brought her hands to her face, trembling as fresh blood dripped from her claws…

"_And on that day, I will have my recompense. On that day, I will end everything that's left of you…" _

"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" she screamed.

"Zoey?..."

_Downward she fell, dragged down to the crushing depths of this nightmarish gyre. This had to be a dream… It had to be… But was it real? What was real? Did it even matter? Her head was spinning. Answers would have to wait…_

"Hey! Great news, Zoey! Coach says he knows way through Florida! Straight shot ter' the Keys, jus' like what you an' Francis were talkin' about!...Zoey…?"

_Against the rusted hulk of the turbine he sat, the dim glow of his final cigarette leaking white tendrils of smoke into the abyss. Blood leaked freely from a menagerie of wounds riddling his body, soaking hungrily into the parched weave of his olive-green garb. _

_Steely grey eyes glinted sternly up at hulking brute standing over him; a dry grin cracked across his spent features. He had nothing to lose; and that thing had nothing to gain…_

"C'mon, Zoey… Yeh've bin' in there fur' almost a whole hour. Please come out…"

"_Let's get this over with…" he growled._

_The brute laughed, its pulsating shoulders quivering with delight. _

"_You heard the man, witch…" it gurgled in a freakishly high voice unbecoming of its massive form, turning to face her. "End him…"_

"_Me?... I… No! I can't!…"_

"_Zoey…?"_

"…Please Zoey! Nick wuz jus' bein' an idiot! He kin' be like that sum' times!..."

"_B-B-Bill…?" she breathed, her red eyes widening with guilt._

_At the sound of her voice, the broken man withered. Her heart broke as she watched him crumble until he was but a broken husk of his former self. _

"_Zoey…"the shade rasped. "How could you?… How could you betray me?..."_

"_I? No! I won't kill you! I would never kill you!"_

_What remained of the veteran shook its head soberly._

"_You didn't have too, either…" _

"_Bill please!"_

_Steel met bloodstone as the wraith raised its head, its gaze chilling the entirety of her being. _

"_How dare you plead with me…"_

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" she screamed, collapsing against the tiles.

"Zoey?... ZOEY!" shouted the southern drawl from behind the door, its pleas growing more desperate as the intermittent knocks grew stronger and more frantic.

She hesitantly got to her feet, rubbing her shoulders with her cold palms. She was still trembling...

"Open the door!... OPEN THE DOOR! ZOEY!"

Steadying herself by the sink, she turned towards the mirror. The pale face stared blankly back. Hesitantly, she reached out…

"ZOOOOOEEEEEY!"

"Oh, for Christ sakes, kid…" growled a new voice. "If you're not going to open the door, get the hell out of the way…"

BANG!

She scarcely had time to contemplate the rapture before the door blasted inward to admit one incredibly ticked-off biker. For a moment he stared about the room before resting his flinty eyes upon his infected companion.

"Bill wouldn't put up with all this emotional diarrhea and neither will I…" he growled firmly, approaching her with all the stiff power of a diesel-powered truck.

"Sorry…" she replied hesitantly.

Francis stopped walking, his eyes narrowing before he grabbed her by the shoulder.

"Everybody's got issues, Zoey," he continued gruffly, a slight hint of annoyance in his voice. "You're not the only one who's lost something. All of our worlds have been broken, some more than others, but that's besides the goddamn point. Fact is, it's something we have to live with. We don't have time to bitch around. We're—"

He paused for a moment, looking her over.

"We're survivors," he finished, turning to glance back at the four faces peeking out from behind the threshold. "All of us…"

Coach nodded in agreement; Francis scowled.

"It's damn well time we started acting like it," he completed, returning his gaze to Zoey, who lowered her red eyes to the floor, her latest vision still fresh in her mind.

_Not a witch… A survivor I was and a survivor I shall remain…_

A clawed hand flew up to grasp the biker's meaty shoulder. Red eyes locked firmly with his.

"You look like shit…"

He scowled, "you're one to talk…"

She smiled. "Thanks."

He grunted, unsure of how to react.

"Merry Christmas," he declared finally, before guiding his teammate to the door.

"Now get the hell out… I've been holding this piss ever since that conman walked out on us."

**To be continued…**

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Hope you liked it! As you've noticed, Zoey is a very complex character and I intend to present her as such. If you have any questions regarding this chapter, or suggestions for adding character depth, don't hesitate to drop me a PM. As usual thanks for reading. **Please share your thoughts on the story via review**; I love that shit.

PS- kudos to any of you who got the FMA:brotherhood, Freudian, and Jungian references :D

*:Quote taken from _Left for Dead 2_ (Valve, 2009)

**:_Left 4 Dead: The Sacrifice . _pp 69-70 (Valve, 2010)


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